The Maze Runner: The In-Between
by AngelFires
Summary: Taking place between The Scorch Trials and The Death Cure, our heroes continue on with the fight for their lives against WCKD and the world's desolation. They will be tested in ways they never could have imagined as they try to differentiate between who they are and who they need to be to survive. (movie-verse)
1. Thomas I

**A/N: **Firstly, thank you for clicking on this fanfiction and giving it a chance! It will be solely focusing on what happens between _Scorch Trials_ and _Death Cure _and will jump between different POV's of canon characters throughout the story.

Enjoy!

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**Thomas I**

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The coordinates. That had been his plan. Use the coordinates to pinpoint WCKD's facilities. Single one out based on location, size, importance and security. Infiltrate it. Get the information on WCKD's subjects. Find out specifically where they were being held. More specifically where Minho was being held—or soon would be.

It had been a sound start.

Until they'd actually started looking for the coordinates.

Last night had been an ambush. A massacre. The fight had been over before it could even truly begin. Taser rounds had rained down on them, explosions had blown them off their feet, WCKD had forced them to their knees. They hadn't stood a chance. It was a miracle any of them had made it out, both life and freedom still intact.

The air was thick with white smoke, making the clear blue sky look hazy. It tasted stale and smelled like death. Bodies were everywhere. Lain out and covered in blankets and sheets. Tents had collapsed or simply burned to the ground and forging through the wreckage wasn't easy.

"This one's busted too."

Thomas looked over his shoulder and watched Frypan chuck another gadget onto an ever-growing pile of unusable items.

Vince had told them, the coordinates had been saved on multiple electronic devices and drawn in on maps. The former were all either fried or defect in some way or another and there wasn't much more to the latter besides piles of ash. In other words, a great start.

Thomas stood from his crouch. "There's gotta be something here. It can't all be gone."

"This could be helpful," Newt said and held up a ratty piece of beige paper, charred black around the edges. "Or would be helpful, if we had the rest of the bloody map."

Thomas took the burned section from him, holding it delicately, afraid it might crumble in his hands. Two X's were marked down, one at the center labeled _WCKD CP_, the other near the edge, almost illegible, _WCKD T_.

Newt got to his feet. "Any idea what those letters mean?"

"Probably some WCKD facility."

"Well spotted, shank. Honestly couldn't have said it better myself."

Thomas rubbed an eye tiredly. "Sorry. We should ask Vince."

Newt nodded, frowning. "You don't think he'll actually know _where_ this is, do you?"

Thomas shrugged. "I don't know. Without actual coordinates or an actual map to compare the landmarks and old highways…"

"Useless."

"No, it's just—"

"Not helpful."

"Not yet."

Newt sent him a wry smile. "'Ever the optimist."

"Yeah, that's me," Thomas muttered under his breath and glanced around them, taking in the remains that was the Right Arm's HQ tent. The tarps were scorched and ripped, supporting posts splintered. A flimsy metal table was lying on its side, one leg missing. Crates were dented, gadgets broken, papers burned. "Find anything, Fry?"

There was a crash as another object was thrown onto the reject pile, followed by a tired sigh. "You wish."

Thomas felt his shoulders sag.

"We'll find something," Newt said and clasped his shoulder. "Not _here_, but maybe in an abandoned car or a nearby town or in a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow…These weren't the last maps on planet Earth. Our luck isn't _that_ rotten."

_If only that were true_.

"Sorry to interrupt your search for the map to treasure island," a new, girlish voice called to them, "but we got bodies to deal with."

"You think she rehearsed that line on the way over?" Newt wondered aloud and glanced over his shoulder.

Thomas just managed to mutter a barely audible 'shut up' before Brenda was level with them. She looked around at them. "Any luck here?"

He held out the map fragment. "We found this. That's about it."

"That _is_ it," Newt corrected.

Brenda looked at it fleetingly, before flipping it over, seeing nothing on the backside, and flipping it back again. She handed it back and nodded. "That'll get you far."

"Yeah, we know," Thomas grumbled, before folding it carefully and sliding it into an inside pocket of his jacket.

Frypan came to stand next to them. "What d'you say about bodies?"

Brenda's eyes fell to the ground briefly and her tone changed to something more somber. "Vince wants to burn them. There's too many to bury. And, he wants to get moving before midday. It's too dangerous to stay here any longer, so pack up whatever you can salvage from here and bring it to the trucks."

"They all working?" Frypan asked, sounding surprised.

"Jorge's still working on the one he drove into that helicopter last night. 'S not looking too bad, but it could go either way."

"Does he need help?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You're not getting out of stacking bodies, Fry." She took a step back and nodded towards the people gathering near the center of the demolished camp. "Come on."

"Who said I was trying to get out of anything?" Frypan wondered, leading the way out of the wreckage, followed by Newt.

"So, you weren't?" Newt asked.

"No, I was. It's just rude to assume."

Newt snorted and Thomas wanted to smile, but he found himself unable to, as if his facial muscles were frozen in a frown.

Brenda fell into step beside him. "You okay?"

He looked over at her. Her pale face was streaked with dirt that extended down to her neck. She looked exhausted if the dark shadows beneath her eyes were anything to go by. But she didn't look sickly. Not like the day before when she had collapsed and nearly gotten her brains blown out by Vince. "Is that a serious question?"

She smiled. "No, I was just being polite."

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "Since when are you ever polite?"

She nudged him with her elbow. "Shut up." A second of silence. "We'll get him back. Minho, I mean. I know we don't have much of a lead, but I know you'll find one, because if there's one thing I know about you, it's that you're as stubborn as they get."

He stopped in his tracks. "I'm not _stubborn_."

She laughed to herself. "Of course you are." She noticed he'd stopped walking and followed suit, turning to face him. "Oh, don't go denying it. Once you get something in your head, there's no changing your mind."

"I…That's not—"

"You want examples? Fine. You wanted to find the Right Arm." She made an open gesture with her arms. "Here we are. You wanted to help me after I got bit. I'm still standing. Last night, you wouldn't abandon your friends or these people, so some of them are still here—"

"That wasn't m—"

"You want to save Minho, so you'll save him…or at least die trying." She crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly to the side. "Tell me, I'm wrong."

He blinked. "That's not being stubborn—"

She rolled her eyes. "Stubbornly refusing that you're not stubborn."

"—I'm just…" His eyes drifted to the horizon, squinting against the sun forcing it's way through the haze of smoke. "He's one of my best friends and I can't just stand by and let WCKD do what they do best. I have to get him back…whatever it takes."

Her expression flickered, before settling back into one of subdued amusement. "Stubbornly selfless then."

He sent her an exasperated look, but it dissipated quickly. He knew what she was doing. Trying to make light of the situation. Trying to make him feel better. Trying to reassure him that he _would_ succeed, that it _wasn't_ hopeless. He exhaled. "Thanks."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Didn't expect you to give in so quickly."

He was about to argue that that wasn't what the 'thanks' was for and that he wasn't agreeing with her statement whatsoever, but when he spotted the small, sincere smile pulling at her mouth a part of him suspected she already knew that, so he said nothing more and they kept walking.

—

Vince's words didn't reach Thomas' ears. The man stood before them all, the dead burning in a distracting heap behind him. Thomas thought it might have looked somewhat ceremonious under a dark sky with orange flames illuminating the night, but this…this was just disturbing. Black smoke rose into the air and the flames only added to the heat of the day. The wind blew by gently, changing it's direction every few minutes, wafting the terrible stench of burning, blistering flesh every which way. It was currently blowing in the general direction of where Thomas, Frypan and Newt stood side by side.

"We did not think this through," Frypan murmured from Thomas's left. It came out muffled, because he had a hand clamped over his nose and mouth.

"Bloody hell, how can he stand _right there_?" Newt grunted, shaking his head at Vince and adjusting the red bandana he'd tightened over half his face.

Vince's voice continued to drone over them, giving words of comfort and encouragement to move forward from the carnage that WCKD had inflicted upon them and to find new strength in each other.

"He can't smell," Thomas replied through his own hand.

"He bloody _what?_"

"Where d'you hear that?" Frypan coughed out.

"He told me. He got hit in the head a while back, lost his sense of smell."

"He told you that."

"Yeah."

"The shank can't smell."

"Yeah."

There was a beat of silence, filled by nothing but the crackling of fire and soft sobs of those mourning a few feet away.

"Lucky bastard." Newt hacked up another cough. "Okay, I'm done. I can't."

Thomas watched Newt step away from them and head off towards the vehicles parked higher up a hill near the pass leading out of the valley and well away from the burning corpses. He caught Frypan's gaze and it took them all but a second to follow Newt's lead. Two familiar figures were standing by a flatbed truck loaded with crates and iron drums. Jorge climbed back up onto the front bumper and stuck his head in the hood while Brenda leaned back against the cab, arms crossed.

"Give up so soon?" she mocked once they reached the truck.

Frypan took a place next to her. "I didn't expect it to be that bad."

"Why do you think we're standing back here? A couple dozen bodies isn't a funeral, it's a godawful spectacle."

Thomas shared a look with Frypan. He noticed a reserved and somewhat uncomfortable smile on the other boy's face, like he wasn't sure he should be finding any kind of amusement in the situation. Brenda was blunt and could be insensitive, but Thomas realized that sometimes that was the only way to cope. Sometimes you just had to go about things with indifference if you wanted to keep your sanity intact.

"How's it look, Jorge?" Thomas climbed up onto the wide fender and crouched down, peering into the hood. Cylinders and valves were bubbling with dirty orange rust and the tubes and connecting cables appeared worn and in need of replacement. On second thought, all of it looked like it was in need of replacement, but Jorge kept tinkering with something deep in the hood that Thomas couldn't see.

Jorge grunted something Thomas didn't understand—he guessed it was intended to be more a sound than a word anyway—, then the man straightened himself up and wiped his hands off on an already filthy rag. "Looks like we're up shit creek without a paddle."

"That's great," he replied dryly.

Jorge shook his head. "We can't lose this baby. Not enough room for supplies and people if we do."

"What's wrong with it?" Newt's voice sounded closer.

"Some of the couplings between the engine and the solar panels are busted. Without enough power the engine won't start. Lucky for us, I'm me. Brenda! Fire it up!"

The heavy door creaked as she swung it open and climbed into the cab. "Say when."

"When!"

The engine began to whine, then roared to life with an ear-splitting bang. Thomas jumped back from the hood with a startled yelp and landed on his ass in the dirt. The engine continued to rattle, sounding as if it were just about ready to explode, and hands grabbed at his arms helping him to his feet as he scrambled away quickly. There was a sudden hiss and then steam began to pour out the hood.

Jorge jumped off the bumper, back onto the ground. "_Mierda!_ Cut the engine!"

The truck quieted down to a wheeze and then there was just the hiss of steam.

The hands fell away. "You alright?"

Thomas looked over at Newt. The bastard was grinning.

"Fine," Thomas replied, trying not to wince at the jolts near his tailbone.

Newt looked back towards the steaming truck and scratched at the back of his neck. "Looks like we're up shit river without a shucking _boat_."

"Yeah, what else is new?"

Newt hummed a sound of agreement. "On the other hand, we're lucky he crashed into that helicopter 'else we'd all be…" His voice seemed to catch momentarily. "…in bits…" Gravel crunched underfoot as he shifted his weight. "…all over the place."

Thomas cringed slightly as the memory resurfaced of him holding a rigged explosive in his hand ready to blow and Newt, Frypan and Minho urging him to set it off. "I still can't believe it came to that." Jorge was back on the bumper, his head in the hood, Frypan at his side, holding up a couple tools in his hands. "How could she do this to us?"

Silence fell between them, filled only by the soft clink and creak of metal and Jorge's faint mutterings to Frypan.

Thomas swallowed the lump in his throat. "I _trusted_ her."

"We all did."

Thomas clenched his hands into tight fists when he felt a painful swell in his chest. "But _I_ should have seen it coming."

Newt sighed softly. "Tommy—"

"She wanted to go back." His voice suddenly felt hoarse. "Back in the Scorch she told me she wanted to go back to WCKD. They did something to her at the facility and she got some of her memories back. She told me that she remembered why we worked for them, said it wasn't as simple as we thought it was…" Thomas looked towards Newt, his eyebrows pulled together. "That was the first sign and I ignored it."

"You couldn't have known."

"But I should have, Newt. I should have known what was going on with her. I could have tried to change her mind, then all _this_—" He swung his arm back down the hill towards the camp and the burning bodies. "—wouldn't have happened."

"You can't blame yourself for everything, Thomas. She made her choice. _This_—" Newt mimicked Thomas' movement. "—is on _her_, not you."

Thomas rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. A part of him knew that Newt was right, but a part of him still felt that dead weight of guilt that he'd been so goddamn stupid. Teresa and him had been best friends when they'd worked at WCKD, maybe even a bit more than just friends, they'd been close—that much he'd been able to pick out from the flashes of memories he'd gotten back—so how hadn't he seen it? How hadn't he realized she'd switched sides? Or had he simply been in denial? Had he chosen not to see it? Had he chosen to believe that her comment about going back was just a one time thing influenced by the lack of certainty in their own survival?

"Thomas?"

It was a girl's voice. One he only vaguely recognized. He turned towards it, eyes falling on a tall girl with caramel skin and dark dreadlocks. She had a belt of bullets slung across her chest and a rifle over one shoulder. The first time he'd met her, he'd been staring down the barrel of said rifle. "Yeah. Harriet, right?"

She nodded, smiling tentatively. "Vince's called a council meeting. He wants you there."

Thomas tried not to show his surprise. "Okay."

"Spill the beans when you're done, yeah?" Newt said and clapped him on the back, before heading back to the others by the truck.

Harriet jerked her head towards the valley and Thomas fell into step beside her as they made their way down the slight hill.

"Did he say what it's about?" he asked.

"No, but I can imagine they'll be setting a heading, going over safety precautions, making a head count of survivors, discussing food and water rations, et cetera."

Thomas simply nodded.

"I'm glad you stepped up," she said suddenly, her tone and choice of words completely deviating from the subject of the council meeting.

He glanced at her, a bit confused as to what she was referring to.

"You convinced Vince to go after WCKD," she went on, "to get our friends back. You convinced _me_ and…I'm just really grateful, because they don't deserve any less. We need to fight for them."

She caught his gaze, a meaningful smile at her lips, and Thomas felt his own mouth pull up at the corners. "Yeah, we do."

The council was gathered in the trunk of a pickup truck, all sitting on the edge, shoulders hunched wearily, except for Vince, who was standing, leaning back against the back window. Their tones were low and serious. Thomas only caught on to the conversation when he was standing directly in front of the open tailgate.

"—go down to the stream, fill up the drums before we move out." Vince's eyes landed on Thomas. "You find anything on WCKD?"

Six heads turned. They all had a wary almost haunted look in their eyes.

"We found this." He pulled the map out of his inside pocket and unfolded it. "Two places are marked, but without coordinates."

Vince walked over to the edge of the trunk and held out his hand. Thomas gave him the map, which Vince simply handed to the man at his right, then held out his hand again. It took Thomas a moment to understand, but then he grasped onto Vince's forearm and clambered onto the truck.

"It's a compound and…probably a trial installation," the man with the map said. His hair was shoulder-length and lanky, his beard patchy, skin weathered.

"Do you know where it is?" Thomas asked. "Do you recognize any of the area? Have you been there before?"

Vince placed a hand on his shoulder. "Slow down, kid. John?"

The man shook his head and passed the map down. "I don't know it, boss."

And around the map went, everyone eventually shaking their heads and Thomas' heart sinking lower and lower each time until he felt it hard and heavy in the pit of his stomach.

Vince looked at it lastly and the lines on his face only deepened. "We'll find more maps, compare landmarks and find out where this is. For now, put it away, wrap it in some cloth so it doesn't get destroyed." He handed the map back.

"Where are we going to find more maps?"

"It'll take time. We'll have to scavenge in passing towns and cities. I can't guarantee any one place, Thomas."

"So, what now?"

"Now, we send out a team to fill up on water, we pack up the rest of our gear and we head north."

"What's north?"

"You ask a lot of questions, kid," Patchy Beard said.

"Weather's cooler up north," Vince replied. "Places up there are more inhabitable, it'll be a better place to set up base. On the down side, I'm pretty sure those WCKD installations are down south. WCKD tends to set up their inhuman activity in places where no one is around to bother them. Their installations are oases in the Scorch. Makes it harder to attack, 'cause there's nowhere for us to hide or set up camp for long periods of time. We did manage to overthrow some of them, but it came at a high price."

Thomas stared down at the map in his hands. Down south. That was his lead. The question was, where down south? The answer was in the north. Of course it was. Did he really expect this to be easy?

Sudden loud whoops and cheers came from far away and Thomas turned towards the sound. Up on the hill, near the pass leading out of the valley, a truck had roared to life and was humming with energy.

"Well, I'll be damned," Patchy Beard murmured, a hint of awe and hope in his voice. "The son of a bitch did it."

"Alright then!" Vince's voice commanded everyone's attention back. "Let's get a move on."

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**A/N:** Love it? Hate it? Leave a review! Feedback is super helpful, because it a) tells me what I'm doing right and what I'm doing wrong, and b) it motivates me to keep writing. So even if you're a guest reader, leave me a few lines, make predictions, ask me questions and you'll always get a personal reply at the end of the next chapter :)


	2. Minho I

**A/N:** Hello, angel readers! Here's another chapter for you. Enjoy!

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**Minho I**

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"Let me out of here!"

Minho banged his hands against the metal door sealing him in his cell. He hadn't stopped since he'd woken up, which couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes ago, but it felt like hours.

The last thing he remembered was being shot in the chest. Prickling cramps had overtaken every fiber in his body, causing his muscles to tense up painfully and spasm. He hadn't been able to move. Everything around him had been burning. Everyone yelling. He'd fallen over, tried to get up, couldn't. And then he passed out. _Slinthead_.

"Where are my friends!? What did you do to them!? ANSWER ME! I know you can hear me, WCK DICKS!" He slammed his palm against the door. "You think you're so tough, huh? Well, open this door and we'll find out! I WILL MESS YOU UP, YOU KLUNK ASS SHUCKFACES!"

Nothing.

He took a step back and rammed the bottom of his foot against the heavy metal, ignoring the sudden jolt that went up his leg. He kicked the door again, but no sound came from the other side. All he could hear were his angry breaths and the _bang _of each impact.

"LET." _Bang_. "ME." _Bang_. "OUT!" _Bang. Bang. Bang_.

The echo died down quickly and then all was quiet again except for the thundering pulse in his head.

He took a step back and his eyes settled on the little rectangle at eye-level. It was a window with a metal flap that could only be opened from the other side. He took another step back and looked around his cell. There was a metal toilet with a sink bolted to the wall. In the corner was a slab of concrete jutting out of the wall, on it a flimsy mattress and a thin blanket, no pillow. The cell was illuminated in white light, coming from a rectangle in the ceiling too high for him to reach, and attached up in the corner by the door was a black sphere; a surveillance camera.

Minho glared at it. Then stuck up his middle finger.

Of course there was no response. He didn't expect there to be one. But he felt he needed to show them that they weren't winning, that _this_ wasn't getting to him. He was not their property and he was going to do everything he could to prove that they didn't have complete control. They couldn't contain him.

WCKD was going to regret this.

Rat Man.

Ava Paige.

_Teresa_. Traitorous bitch.

This was all her fault. How could she do this to them? After everything they'd gone through together and she still betrayed them. Janson had said, Teresa had 'an appreciation for the greater good'. What a load of klunk. She was delusional. They all were. Just a group of slintheads with too much power.

His face felt hot and his shoulders shook. He curled his hands into fists. Wave after wave of rage and hatred crashed over him as he thought about what they'd done to his friends, about what they'd done to the Right Arm, and about what they'd done to dozens, possibly hundreds of immunes he didn't even know. WCKD exploited and tortured and killed anyone and everyone with the justification that it was for the greater good.

Minho's fist shot out and he punched the wall. Pain rocketed through his knuckles. "Screw the greater good." He punched the wall again and frowned at the red spots it left.

What he was feeling—betrayal, hate, anger, fear—, it was like energy that needed to be dispelled. He needed to _do_ something. Back in the maze, he'd been able to channel it into running, but in here?

He felt like screaming. But he couldn't scream. If he screamed, they'd know they were getting to him.

He looked up at the camera. "You could've at least given me some crayons or something, WCK Dicks!"

He paced around from a few minutes, trying to control his breathing, but it wasn't working. He felt like his insides were on fire and his pulse was like a drum in his ear. He punched the wall again. He winced. It wasn't the best coping mechanism. After a moment, he started running in place. He closed his eyes and focused on his heart rate, on the burning in his muscles, on anything but on where he was.

At what he estimated to be the two hour mark he finally stopped. Drenched in sweat, he pulled his t-shirt off and tossed it onto the bed. He took a drink of water from the sink and grimaced. It had a metallic tang to it.

"Is the water poisoned?" He looked at the camera. "I guess, you'd hang up a sign if it were. Do I get a shower? What about food? You gonna keep ignoring me? Well, while you're at it, send some room service. Eggs and bacon. Extra crispy. I'll be here. Waiting."

He turned his back on the camera and splashed some water on his face. It might taste like klunk, but at least it was cool.

The water spouted out like a waterfall from a small slit and was activated by a sensor. No spout, no handles. Nothing that could be removed and used as a weapon. The toilet was the same.

_They weren't taking any chances_, he thought bitterly.

He inspected the door next. On the surface he counted forty-eight lacquered bolts. It looked pristine. No chips in the enamel, no protruding bolts. Nothing. The light coming from the rectangle in the ceiling was far too high up even if he stood on his bed and jumped. Similarly the surveillance camera was also far out of reach. He tried to reach them both by holding up and throwing about his mattress, but it proved to be too flimsy to do him any good.

He was trapped. Again. Only this time it was worse, because he was sealed in a concrete box with no fresh air or daylight or space to run. And he was alone.

He took a deep breath and hesitated to pull his t-shirt back on when he saw what was stamped across the back: PROPERTY OF WCKD. He crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the corner.

"You can go dunk your heads in a pile a klunk and shove your tasers up your asses," he muttered to himself.

Hunger was starting to gnaw at him.

Was this WKCD's plan? Starve him into submission?

Well, he wasn't cracking.

"I want to talk to Janson! You hear me? Your hospitality sucks!" He laid back on the bed, arms crossed behind his head, and simply waited. _Something_ was bound to happen.

Nothing did.

He dropped down to the ground parallel to his bed in a pushup position, hands in line with his shoulders, and started pumping his arms. He didn't stop until he reached two hundred, then followed it up with the same amount of situps. Sweat slicked his skin and slid down his temples and neck, dripping onto the floor. He counted silently in his head at first, focusing on his form and breathing, and then towards the end when it become more strenuous, he started calling out the numbers to distract himself from the pain.

"…ONE NINETY-EIGHT…UGH NINETY-NINE…TWO HUNDRED!"

He collapsed back onto the floor, breathing heavily. He squinted up at the ceiling.

Now what?

Minutes turned into hours and Minho figured it out. They were not only trying to starve him, but also to _bore_ him into submission. There was literally nothing to do. He'd asked for a TV or a music player, then decided to tone down the requests and asked for a book.

"What about a bouncy ball? Or just a piece of paper." He threw his arms up. "You already know that I'm an origami master."

Why was no one at least talking with him? Were they trying to drive him insane?

His stomach suddenly growled as if in response.

"Shut up."

He couldn't tell if the day was over, but he'd had enough. The boredom and hunger and fatigue had won over and he decided to get some sleep. The mattress was only slightly softer than the ground, but it did keep the cold off his back. And he had to admit, it was probably more comfortable than a hammock, but the fact that he was enclosed by concrete and metal took all the comfort away. Minho pulled the blanket tighter around him.

This sucked. They didn't even turn the light off. What time was it? Why didn't they turn the light off?

"Turn the goddamn light off!"

Of course they didn't.

"Bunch a good for nothing klunkfaced shuckfaces," he grumbled and pulled the blanket over his head and faced the wall. This whole thing was a test. He knew it was a test. They were trying to sweat him out. Make him as uncomfortable as possible, so he didn't have a choice, but do what they wanted.

He wouldn't crack. He'd survived their tests before, he could do it again.

But what if it wasn't a test? What if this was just his holding cell until judgement day? What if WCKD was just keeping him in here until they were ready to string him up and drain him of whatever it was they wanted from him? Like those kids, Thomas told him about.

Thomas. Newt. Frypan. Where were they? Did they get away or did WCKD have them? He hated not knowing. He hated being alone. He hated the silence.

His heart suddenly felt like it might break his ribcage. Why couldn't he breathe?

He threw his blanket off and got to his feet. He walked over to the door, then back to the bed, then back to door. The cell was small. Too small. God, why couldn't he breathe?

Small cell. Little air flow.

No, it had to be a test. It had to be. They were monitoring him after all.

He slammed the side of his fist against the door. _Breathe_. He punched the door again. His knuckles screamed in protest, but he didn't listen. He punched it again. It burned like fire, stung like salt in a wound, but it was a better pain than thinking about his friends, than thinking about the future, than thinking about the fact that he was trapped again and there was nothing he could do about it.

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**A/N:** Poor Minho :( What do you readers think so far? Leave a review!


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